


the feeling's fleeting

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Margaery's sad, Sansa's innocence, and i didn't fix it because this is a one shot, highgarden is slang for pride parade, she's lying bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 04:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In her blue and grey gown, one far too light for The North, she stood graceful and still. Snowflakes crowning her head, flowers weaved into her hair, and her gaze kind, Sansa thought: she must be more beautiful than any queen who has lived.





	the feeling's fleeting

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be part of something I was working on and then I realized it really didn't fit well, but I still kinda like it, so it's here now. I hope you enjoy it. (i know there's mistakes but i have summer work and i'm stressed)

They meet by chance, that somehow Sansa does not believe is chance at all, in the Godswood. Margaery, standing by the pool before the weirwood tree, looked the full part of a ghost. 

In her blue and grey gown, one far too light for The North, she stood graceful and still. Snowflakes crowning her head, flowers weaved into her hair, and her gaze kind, Sansa thought: she must be more beautiful than any queen who has lived. 

And when she moved look at Sansa, she became certain that the girl in front of her was more beautiful than gilded queen could ever be. Her eyes were soulfully brown, her features soft and sharp at once in the smoothest combination. White framed her eyelashes, her lips seemed almost blue, and still, she looked like a painting.

After the moment of unintentional admiration, Sansa’s heart jumped. The girl looked so mournfully at the pool. Like she would not mind dying there. An alarm sparking in her, Sansa rushed forwards, scrabbling at the binds of her cloak to undo it. Her fingers were clumsy with urgency, but her run was quick, and she can’t remember any part of the journey over to the pool.

Reaching the girl, Sansa threw the cloak around her. Feeling the warmth escape from her back as she fastened the strings of the cloak around the other girl. 

“Gods, what are you doing?” she exclaimed, her breath fogging her vision.

Margaery just looked at her face. There’s distance and calculation in her eyes, and she says, “Waiting to go home.”

  
  
  


_ “What is your name?” _

_ “Margaery.” _

_ “That is a very pretty name. My name is Sansa.” _

_ “That is a pretty name too, Sansa. It matches you.” _

  
  


She marched Margaery through the Great Keep to her rooms with an air of importance befitting a lady. 

In the heated walls of the keep, Margaery’s lips hinted at red. She looked less like an apparition and more like a girl alive, and if she were beautiful by the weirwood, she was more enchanting with the allure of life in her cheeks. 

Something hardened in Sansa. She had to keep Margaery with her. There was something special about her. Something worth lyrics, so how could Sansa part so quickly with her? Yes, she had to be a part of her song. 

  
  
  


_ “Father, please!” _

_ “We do not know her, Sansa. It is not as though we have much to spare for another mouth. Winter is coming, sweetheart.” _

_ “She could be my handmaiden.”  _

_ “You have a handmaid.” _

_ “Please, I would like this very much, father. More than anything.” _

  
  
  
  


Margaery keeps that mournfulness about her for days. Lips pouted and eyes distant. 

It only convinced Sansa further that she was something different. Maybe a lost princess, her knight slain in the harshness of the north. Maybe a girl brought back to life by the Old Gods, to act in some mysterious way for the wellbeing of Westeros. Maybe she was the Maiden herself. 

Her answers to questions are polite (if she were screaming profanities, Sansa thinks, her voice would still be too pleasant to find offensive) and short. A part of Sansa chafes. She wanted to hear Margaery’s voice in conspiring whispers and grinning statements. The way friends would talk. 

Instead, Margaery made contemplative comments and sweet courtesies. All honeyed words and amiable smiles, but nothing more. It is all courtly words and the awkward silences of acquaintances. Sansa wished, more than most things, that Margaery would tell her everything. So she would really be a part of this song. 

She wanted this every moment she saw Margaery. 

On the third night, Sansa and Margaery retired quickly after dinner. She means to talk with Margaery about anything at all. They had to have something in common. 

After blushing through the words:  _ will you help me undress,  _ Margaery speaks for the first time without prompt. 

“Have you lived here your whole life?” She asks, as she pulls at Sansa’s laces. She moved her fingers so gracefully, never struggling in unfastening the ties. 

“Yes,” Sansa said, “But someday, I’ll be married to a lord and live at his castle.” The words brought less relish than it usually did. Would she be able to bring Margaery along? Would she want to? Surely Margaery would catch the gaze of any lord, and if it were her own… Sansa wondered if the thought of her lord husband betraying her was comparable to the hurt Margaery betraying her would bring. She shook the thought from her head. “Where have you lived?”

“Will you tell anyone if I tell you the truth?” Margaery asked softly, she felt the breath on her neck. Sansa shook her head violently. Of course not. She wanted to be a confidant of Margaery, a discreet lady would never tell her friend’s secrets. No, she would not divulge the secrets of a girl deserving the name Jonquil. 

“I have lived in Highgarden most my life, my lady.” The last of Sansa’s ties were loosened and her corset slumped forwards. Margaery dutifully caught it and took it off her, placing it gently into a closet. Meanwhile, Sansa sat and removed her shoes. The stone ran cool beneath her feet.

“I have not heard of Highgarden.”

“No,” Margaery said, bitterness biting at her words, “You would not have.” Sansa stood to look Margaery in the face, but only had a few moments of contemplation before Margaery began to curtsy and said, “Good night, my lady. I should be going now.”

Some desperation possessed Sansa. It begged  _ no, not when you have started to speak to me,  _ working up through her mouth as a “Wait.”

She looked up through her eyelashes at Sansa, an eyebrow raised inquisitively. And again, Sansa thought she looked unfairly pretty for such a simple expression. 

“Would you spend the night with me?” 

Those pretty eyebrows shot to her hairline and her lips parted, and for the first time, Sansa thought Margaery seemed shocked. She decided every look must be a lovely one on Margaery.

“Truly, my lady?” She sounded close to incredulous, but somehow not alarmed. Sansa did not know why she felt flattered by it. Like it was some amazement to share a bed with her.

“Sansa. Call me Sansa,” She mended hastily, “and yes. Truly.”

Margaery stood there a bit longer, her mouth still a little agape and her eyes looking over Sansa thoroughly. She felt uncomfortable under Margaery’s intense stare, but a part of her revelled in the feeling.  _ She is looking at me. She is  _ looking  _ at me.  _

Her lips pulled into a slow smile. There was a newfound excitement in her eyes, and Sansa’s theory on the faces of Margaery proved true again. 

“I am a touch shocked, my lady,” Then she remembered. “Sansa.” The name on Margaery’s lips sent a shiver down her back.“Will you help me out of this gown?”

“Yes,” Sansa said hurriedly, shuffling into Margaery’s space as she turned her back to Sansa. “Yes, of course.” 

Her hands stumbled and missed, to Sansa’s embarrassment, but she did manage to get the outer layers off of Margaery. And when they both stood in their chemises, Margaery turned to look her in the eye. She took Sansa’s hand in hers and moved towards the bed. Sansa barely noticed her steps. She was occupied with the feeling of Margaery’s thumb grazing circles into the back of her hand. 

Margaery was easing herself into the furs (Sansa liked the way her brown hair looked against her sheets) when Sansa remembered her courtesies. “Do you like the candles lit?”

She stared unreadably at Sansa before she smiled and said, “How would you like it?”

Sansa was relieved. It was hard to sleep when the lights were on she found.  _ She is too considerate,  _ Sansa thought, walking over to her nightstand to extinguish some of the lights in her room, leaving only one candle on. 

When she turned back, Margaery had settled into the furs. Highgarden. It sounded southern. Northern towns usually had more of an edge to their names. If Margaery was from deep in the South, then the northern climate must be startling to her. In the dim light, she seemed warm and content in Sansa’s bed, and she thought about if Margaery’s rooms were heated enough for her. 

Sansa pulled up the furs and laid on her back, turning her head to see Margaery, on her side, an arm pillowing her head, looking intently at Sansa. Her stomach fluttered nervously with Margaery looking at her like that. 

“What is Highgarden like?” She didn’t know why her voice came out a whisper, but it felt appropriate to her. “Is it in the South?”

“It is South,” Margaery did not whisper, but her voice was soft and low. If the sound of it could be captured, there was no doubt every singer would mimic it for their most seductive lyrics. “And it is beautiful.”

Sansa moved with a shuffle in the sheets so that she was on her side facing Margaery. “Tell me about it.”

“The castle could be made from a storybook’s description. High white towers and strong walls of the same stone, yes it is wonderful.” The way she talked, in this fiercely adoring manner, left Sansa with no choice to love the place already. “The gardens are manically green, with all its color in the flowers and berries and fruits and some other things. Every color. And outside the wall, there is a maze of rose bushes. So just to get into our walls, you must appreciate the beauty of our flowers.”

Sansa tried, but she could not see it completely. She could not imagine the lines in the stone. She could not see the exact shade of green of the briar maze. Even without seeing it, without knowing it, Sansa ached for its beauty. 

“You must take me one day.” Sansa’s voice was innocently earnest and Margaery put a hand on her cheek. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is, sweetling.” She moved closer, so that only a breath stood between them and their chests touching. Margaery’s eyes were half lidded, and in the candlelight those bright eyes looked black. Her hand fell from her cheek and grasped her hand between them. “You are beautiful too, Sansa.”

She could feel the heat rise to her face, but did not pay it much notice. There was no room to notice it, Margaery was looking at her with something  _ wanting.  _ Sansa couldn’t say she didn’t want whatever Margaery wanted too. At any given time really.

Margaery moved forwards slowly, pressing a soft kiss under her eye. Her mouth was impossibly warm. Then another below that, and another, and another until one landed on the corner of her mouth. She paused there, and Sansa mourned the absence of movement dearly, though the stillness was kind enough. After the moment Margaery’s mouth came to her jaw. 

It felt hard to breathe in a delightful way as she trailed down to her neck. She could not help the sigh from her throat when Margaery pressed at her pulsepoint. She felt so warm, like sparks were being struck wherever Margaery was. 

Somewhere in the time, Margaery’s hand had unwound itself from Sansa’s, her hand gripping at Sansa’s waist. It felt nice, maybe Sansa didn’t know why, but it did and she wanted to sigh and laugh and moan and smile at how good it felt. 

“That feels nice,” Sansa said softly, and she felt Margaery smile at the hollow of her neck. 

And then Margaery’s hands were at the hem of her shift. And she was pushing up, and everything was happening quickly. 

Sansa’s hand shot down to Margaery’s. 

“What are you doing?” She asked, a little accusatory and a bit more breathless. 

The kisses being laid at her neck stopped. She pulled back to look at Sansa’s flushed face. Her eyes searched Sansa’s, and gods knew what she was looking for. Sansa felt hot and wildly confused, and something almost disappointed passed through Margaery’s dark eyes. 

“Nothing, sweet girl,” She pulled her hand away from the hem of Sansa’s shift. She cupped the girl’s cheek and leaned in to kiss her nose. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I must have misread something along the way.” She pulled farther away, and Sansa missed the proximity of her warmth. “We should get to sleep, shouldn’t we.” She pulled farther away, and Sansa missed the proximity of her warmth. 

“Okay,” was all Sansa could think to say. In a sudden, inexplicable wave of awkwardness, she turned away from Margaery, facing the little flickering candle on her nightstand. 

  
  
  


_ “I didn’t mean to offend you in any way last night.” _

_ “I know, darling. I took no offense.” _

In the Great Hall, breaking their fast together, Sansa could hardly stand to look at Margaery. She certainly  _ wanted  _ to look at Margaery. Anyone would after all, but when she did… She could feel her hands on her thigh, gently pulling up fabric. 

Margaery seemed to have no such reservations though, like the last night had just been friends becoming closer.  _ Is that how it is Highgarden?  _ She couldn’t help but wonder if, in Margaery’s home, friends did things like that. If friends took the role of lovers before marriage. During?

In the North, Sansa knew it wasn’t that way, but the South was uncharted territory. She had heard Theon once, talking to Robb, when he did not know she was listening. He had said the ironmen used to take many wives. And if those wives were fond of each other, all the better. 

That was just the Iron Islands too. Maybe, farther down south, they were more free about those things. More like Dorne, where blood was blood without rankings, and bedding out of wedlock was just a sign of passion. Maybe, in Highgarden, you took whatever pleasures you wanted. 

She tried to forget the thought. She did not  _ want  _ Margaery in that way. No, she cared for Margaery as a friend. A dear friend, her beautiful and lost and ethereal friend. She  _ admired  _ Margaery. She needed to take that distinction to heart. 

And if she didn’t, then at least she had to remember: she was no Martell or Greyjoy. She was a Stark. 

And she was not going to fall in love with a pretty girl she just met.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Did I do them justice? No? I know. It's okay though, maybe someday.
> 
> The actual thing will be about Margaery being a faerie, and maybe that'll be someday.
> 
> tumblr: twentysixthpercent


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